


The Give-Back Gift

by Cheshyr



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:21:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28249824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheshyr/pseuds/Cheshyr
Summary: Pete had no idea whether he had stolen all of Patrick’s sweatshirts with the intention of giving them back as a gift, or if the idea had come about afterwards. His brain was weird like that sometimes.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16
Collections: Have Yourself A Merry Little Fic Exchange





	The Give-Back Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [officialbillhader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialbillhader/gifts).



> Written for the "Have Yourself a Merry Little Fic Exchange" with the prompt "character a gets character b a very unexpected gift" for Awesomepie3221! I actually struggled a lot with this fic (and ended up not including Brendon... sorry!!) but I hope you still like it! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! <3

Pete honest to God had no idea whether his plan was intentional or accidental.

His brain did that to him sometimes. Sometimes he would find himself in a situation that caught him completely off guard only to look back and find in hindsight that the pieces had all been set by Pete himself. And he lost sleep trying to figure out if it had been an honest coincidence, a happy (or unhappy) accident, or if he had been doing it subconsciously- intentional but repressed- but he could never decide.

So no. He had no idea whether he had stolen all of Patrick’s sweatshirts with the _intention_ of giving them back as a gift, or if the idea had come about afterwards. 

Whatever. Hopefully Patrick wouldn’t ask.

To be fair, Patrick had the _best_ sweatshirts. The singer always bought baggy clothes to hide his body, which Pete thought was a damn shame (because _damn_ ), but also meant that Pete practically drowned in the fabric. So you couldn’t blame him if, after happening upon one of the articles of clothing wedged underneath one of the van seats on a night when he couldn’t sleep, he slipped the hoodie over his head and sighed in relief. It was simple grey fabric, thick and warm and when he pulled the hood over his head he felt safe. It smelled like Patrick, and felt like a hug, and Pete never wanted to take it off. 

For awhile it was just the one. He kept the grey sweatshirt in his own bag and used it like a security blanket during all the sleepless nights. But then, Patrick left a forest green knit sweater tossed over the back seat of the van and well, the hoodie didn’t smell like Patrick so much anymore, not like this one, and the texture was still soft but it was new, different, something to run his fingers over and distract himself from racing thoughts at 3am. So into his bag it went.

As time passed, he barely noticed he was doing it. It was unthinking, the way he’d reach out and and snag any jackets or sweaters Patrick left unattended (which was a lot because Pete loved Patrick but the kid was also one of the messiest people he’d ever met) and shoved them into his own bag to be pulled out when the insomnia hit. He started associating different pieces with different nights- the grey hoodie for when he felt weighed down with exhaustion but just couldn’t sleep; the green sweater for when his brain ran in twelve different directions at 100mph; the black Queen sweatshirt for when his brain was static and his body was buzzing. And so on and so on.

Before he knew it, he was struggling to zip up his bag, and Patrick was whining about having nothing to wear.

“I’m not going out in just a fucking t-shirt!” He complained, folding his arms self consciously, “It’s fucking cold out there, and besides, I know I brought like, a dozen jackets when we left!”

Actually he had brought five, and then bought two on the road. Pete knew because he currently had all seven of them in the duffle bag he was sitting on in the corner of the green room.

Joe rolled his eyes, “You probably left them at some of the venues or the last hotel or something. You’re not going to become famous for your tidiness, Trick.”

Patrick huffed, and then he and Joe spent ten minutes playing tug-o-war with one of the guitarist’s hoodies. Technically Patrick won, but he ended up just screaming into the fabric when he realized it fit too tight for him to be comfortable, and Joe was ultimately able to retrieve it once the singer collapsed face down across the room’s ragged couch.

“There, there,” Andy reached over clumsily from his seat on the floor to pet at Patrick’s head, “Maybe your mom will get you some new stuff for Christmas.”

And _that_ was when Pete realized he had a plan.

He knew he wanted to get Patrick something for Christmas. Well, he wanted to get all his friends something, but they were all broke as shit, and while he didn’t want to play favorites, when it came to Patrick, he was incapable of _not_ playing favorites.

So, while it pained him to have to forfeit his hoard of pilfered clothing, he knew it would be worth it to make Patrick happy. And if the only money he had to spend was on the largest gift bag he could find at the local mall of one of their stops, that was just another plus. 

Pete was so excited about having _any_ sort of plan for Patrick’s Christmas gift, that he didn’t think about the flaws in said plan until the very last moment. The last moment being the band's last motel night before heading back home to spend Christmas and New Year’s with their families, Pete and Patrick sharing a room as they tended to, and Pete blurting out, “I’ve got something for you”, right as they were going to bed. 

The singer looked up, wide eyed with surprise, “What?”

“Like, for Christmas,” Pete explained, “I got something for you.”

Patrick’s eyes got even wider, “You- you didn’t have to do that! Really, I mean, I know we’ve all got like, zero budgets and shit, and I don’t need anything-”

Pete tuned out the singer’s rambling as he kneeled by his bag, only to have his own brain start rambling at him instead. He was about to give Patrick _his own stuff_ as a gift. That was cheap as Hell. Not to mention it was pleading guilty to having stolen Patrick’s stuff in the first place, something the other boy had been thoroughly annoyed by for the past several weeks. He had been so focused on Patrick being happy to have them back, that he didn’t stop to think about how fucking pissed he’d be that Pete had taken them in the first place. 

This was a terrible idea and Pete hated himself.

But he couldn't exactly back out now, he was already standing in front of a red faced Patrick with a bright green gift bag and when did that happen? Fuck it all.

“Merry Christmas I’m sorry!” Pete practically threw the bag at the younger boy, Patrick flailing to catch the large package, one hand coming up to keep his cap and glasses in place.

For a moment, it looked like Patrick wanted to question his apology, but Pete just flapped his hands vaguely towards the gift until he turned his focus back down and began to hesitantly pull at the tissue paper sloppily shoved into the bag. Finally, the contents of the bag were revealed, Patrick reaching in and pulling out the stack of carefully folded items. Pete watched as Patrick’s face went through a whole emotional journey in the span of about two seconds: Confusion, joy, awe, back to confusion, anger, and then confusion again. But when he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral.

“Are these…” he starts slowly, “my jackets?”

“Um… yes?” Pete winces at the way his voice comes out high pitched and weak, and when he sees Patrick open his mouth to respond, he finds himself scrambling to explain before he even thinks the words through.

“I didn’t mean to!” He blurts out, making Patrick jump in surprise, “You just have like, the best sweatshirts. They’re so big and baggy and warm and they smell like you and they help me sleep so sometimes when you left one laying around I would snag it to wear at night and then I’d forget to give it back and then you were complaining about losing all your stuff and I realized it was almost Christmas and I wanted to get you something but you’ve obviously noticed we’re all fucking broke so I figured I’d just give you… those… back?” 

He’s out of breath by the time he finishes, and he doesn’t mean to end on a question (again), but it just sort of happens. Patrick is staring at him, eyebrows up under the brim of his hat and mouth slightly agape as he processes the trainwreck of words that Pete just handed him. 

Sometimes even Pete isn’t sure how he manages to write songs.

There is a too long moment where they just stare at each other, and for as much as Pete often feels like they can read each other's minds, as much as they can seem to communicate without speaking, Pete has no idea what’s going through Patrick’s head right now.

And then the singer smiles.

“I have a gift for you, too.”

Everything in Pete’s brain screeches to a halt. 

“I-... what?” 

Nodding, Patrick stood, “Yup.” 

Then, stepping forward, the singer purposefully placed the stack of jackets into Pete’s arms.

“...What?” Pete croaked in confusion, eyes darting between the clothes and Patrick’s soft gaze, “Your…?”

“Ours, actually,” Patrick smirked, “We can share them, alright?” His voice was fond as he explained, “If you want to wear any of them, go for it. Just don’t like, hide them from me. I’m sick of people seeing my arms,” he mumbled the last part to himself.

“But I like your arms!” Pete exclaimed, too loud for the quiet moment.

Patrick rolled his eyes, “Oh shut up,” but his face was bright red, and not thinking things through had gotten Pete this far, so why start now?

“I do! I like your arms, and your smile, and your voice, and- and _you_!”

Pete decides to amend his earlier observations of Patrick’s face turning red, because _now_ the singer is red. His voice is quiet when he responds, and he’s staring at the floor, “Stop.”

“Nope,” Pete says immediately, grinning widely when he sees the edges of Patrick’s lips twitch upwards, “It’s Christmas, the season of honesty.”

“I don’t think that’s right.”

“The season of giving compliments?”

“Getting closer.” Patrick finally looks up, eyes shadowed by his cap and soft eyelashes but his smile practically glowed, and it would be unreasonable to expect him not to kiss him in that moment.

Patrick’s lips are softer than any of his sweaters, and his skin is warmer than any of his hoodies, and when Pete inhales it feels more like home than any of the stolen fabric.

When they pull apart, the singer smirks and looks up exaggeratedly, “What, no mistletoe?”

Pete shook his head sarcastically, “So high maintenance.”

“I’m letting you get away with giving me my own shit for Christmas, you definitely don’t get to call me high maintenance.”

“Hey, I’m letting you get away with regifting MY present.”

“Hm, well I guess we’re even then.”

Pete grins, and he kisses Patrick again, and Patrick kisses him again, and they each pick a sweatshirt to wear to bed, and fall asleep smiling like it’s Christmas morning.


End file.
